


Kid in the Hall

by cuntoid



Category: Castle Rock (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Fearplay, Forced Orgasms, Home Invasion, Primal Sex, Punching, Religious overtones, Rough Sex, Slapping, animalistic overtones, blood all over the damn place, dark tower references as per usual, descriptions of violence, dubcon, it's all about those dang ol instincts baby, noncon, only including both the kid AND henry deaver tags because we just don't know for sure now do we, supernatural fuck, violent urges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: There's a strange man in the halllway.





	Kid in the Hall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a super messy personal bit I wrote with no real purpose other than exploring the Kid and his weird pull. What if he could yank your Violence Chain and control your instincts at will? What if it's not just some miasma around him, or unfortunate circumstance of reality-hopping; what if he's just a bored, sadistic entity having fun? 
> 
> What other kinds of fun could he get into?

You’re not alone.

It’s an old house with old boards, with creaks and moans and bumps in the night. It’s not unheard of to be sitting upstairs and hear something in the hallway… or in a room downstairs… or outside the garage door, in the closet under the stairs, on the patio out back. It’s not uncommon to hear steps, or sometimes even a snatch of a voice, of an animal sound, stuff that carries weird on the air and reveals nothing in the subsequent search except the house itself. 

This is _not_ just a sound. 

He fills the end of the hallway, impossibly tall and imposing. His presence alone suffocates you as the air rushes from your lungs, his eyes trained on you as he barely avoids bumping his head on the ceiling—he’s so fucking long. It’s not in you to scream, so you stand there, muscles frozen enough to ache. Every instinct inside of you tells you to _RUN_ , to _SCREAM_ and _HIDE_ and _CALL THE POLICE._ A sheriff station is only blocks away. There are knives in the kitchen, but there are better weapons deeper in house… in the unlocked bedroom beside him. During this frantic train of thought, he turns his head and stares at the doorknob before slowly turning back to you, a twitch at the corner of his lips as though he’s weighing the merits of your private thoughts. 

What _else_ is in the room?

Your phone.

Your _family_.

Three of the four doors ahead of him in the little hall contain people you love, people you’d kill and die for, loves of your life. Family. He strokes the door beside him, eyes burning at you like fire in the gloom of the hallway.

“I…I don’t have a lot of money,” you say. There’s a self-preserving instinct to remain calm and try to hypnotize him, and he tilts his head at the wavering of your voice like an injured dog. In a fit of delirious courage, you take a few steps toward the hall, steps that feel like climbing a mountain, that make your legs shake with all the weight of the world the nearer you get to him. It’s like he gives off some strange frequency, the air palpable with it, churning around you like voices, suggestive as a whisper. “But. But, uh… _you can have it_. You can have _whatever_ I have, you can take whatever you want.”

He straightens and takes a matching step. His hand slides away from the fake wood of the door and he turns to observe another, the sharpness of his features edged by the strained light from the living room. There’s a rush of relief choked by a crushing sense of dread each time he teases his way across a doorway and studies it, studies you. Judging. Maybe thinking nothing at all, the blankness of his face betrayed only by the hint of amusement deep in those eyes. 

If you keep standing there, he’s going to reach you. It’s not a long space; he’s only a couple yards away, maybe, and if you run, you have nowhere to go. The knives in the kitchen scream out at you and a vision of you making it to the knife block plays on the reel of your mind, the image of you plunging it into this strange man clear as day. Fingers shaking, you agonize over the logistics of the entire ordeal. He could kill you. He could kill someone _else._

“I’ve seen you run.”

His fingers splay open across the last door in the hall, long, graceful. Under other circumstances, the violence with which you focus on those hands might be carnal. Veins race just under the flesh, purpled and flexing with each twitch of his tendons. He turns to you as you gather your wits. Any drive to escape starts to pale under that glare of his, and you realize that he’s not the one who’s going to be hypnotized. He takes another step and light washes over his face as he enters the living room proper.

“ _What…?_ ”

Tilted head, parted lips. Glassy eyes. _Burning_ eyes. “I’ve seen you run,” he repeats softly. “I can run faster than you.”

“Have you been… _how_ …” Stringing words together takes so much effort, it takes so much thought to remember them, to construct anything meaningful in the face of your certain death at the hands of this person, this man swimming in a dirty gray shirt and loose jeans. He hunches his shoulders like he’s the unsure one, and you swallow back a scream that might not stop once it starts.   
  
_I’ve seen you run. I can run faster than you._  
  
He ignores your verbal stumbling and makes his way closer, and the window to escape slams shut. He could stretch one lean arm and brush your skin with his fingers.

“What would you do,” he whispers, “if you woke up to find me in your room with a knife?”  
  
He lifts words from your past as if trying them on, dredging it up along with the mental image of a knife block, your lifeline, your lost opportunity. You have no time to mourn this in the face of this fucking guy, close enough to kiss the crown of your head with his plush lips like he can bless you, like he can remake you in his own image, like he can smite you while you allow him access to your body. Every inch of your flesh crawls with dread.  
  
“ _Please don’t hurt me_.”  
  
“You _want_ me to hurt you,” he murmurs. His hand feels smooth as it cups your face, thumb stroking over the apple of your cheek . “They _always_ want pain. But _you_ … you want it done _to_ you. You want it _here_.” One huge hand against your cheek, cool as clay. Another pushing between your thighs to settle solidly against your cunt, your sex at his mercy in the secret heat of his palm, and breathing at a normal rate feels like the single most difficult chore you can muster as blood roars in your ears. Your heart pounds through the fabric of your shirt and hangs in the empty space remaining between you, and there’s this delusional thought that maybe he doesn’t have a pulse to match yours. “ _Sh’veen-tete._ All things serve the beam. Delight in your obligation—isn’t that what you do? Isn’t this your sacred offering?”  
  
Swimming. Thoughts churn in and out of your head, foggy, more like visions than anything else as he tilts the heel of his palm to grind it up. There are voices that aren’t yours threading their way through; unvoices, the sounds of intention and firing synapses and pure, primal urge. The blood in your veins feels too hot for your body and you imagine it bubbling up, spurting out of you in jets and rivulets until you’re free of the suffocating pressure of housing it.   
  
This stranger withdraws his touch to tug at his clothing, eyes on you, only on you, and again there’s a wave of violence drowning every coherent thought and you want to go to the knife block. You want to slice the clothes off of his body, to slice him open, bury your arms into the slippery cavern of his belly elbow-deep and hold his lungs in your hands. His eyelids flutter and he shivers, turning to stare into the dining room toward the kitchen.   
  
_He knows_.  
  
A fleeting moment of clarity has you spinning on your heel and lunging for the kitchen. As engulfed by the flames of your own heat as you are, under the sleepy spell of this stranger, this intruder, you have the temporary wits to make a break for a weapon. Maybe you can land a shallow stab somewhere – what are the chances it’ll be fatal? Does it matter?   
  
It doesn’t.  
  
His long arms wrap around you in an instant, pulling you to the floor as you squirm and struggle and he slaps a big hand over your mouth, face inches from yours as he studies your eyes. Slapping him back doesn’t register a response. Scratching, struggling, twisting underneath his weight gets you absolutely nowhere. It only threads adrenaline through your shot nerves until you’re shaking and making sounds you don’t recognize as your own, muffled whimpers and pleas and high-pitched whines as you drool on his palm.   
  
“Look at me. _Look_. That’s not your place. Your place is _underneath_ me, here, _now._ No one gets hurt in ways they don’t want tonight.” His cock is warm against your thigh, twitching there. Lust burns itself into an inferno in your belly, big enough to light the entire house like a beacon in the night. “You _wanted_ to be found. You _want_ to be filled with purpose until it runs down your thighs. _I know_. And I’m here to give that to you as a gift. _A mercy._ ”  
  
It’s almost easy to lie still as he sits on his heels to pull your clothing off, working slowly as if to taunt you for not escaping. You’re almost convinced that there’s no way, that it’s not worth another risk. _Almost._   
  
The constant ringing in your ears fizzles in and out like radio static. Everywhere around you, life continues at its normal pace. Your family sleeps. The dishwasher runs faintly in the background and the dryer tumbles low on the second floor, miles away from the carpet fibers scraping along the bumps of your spine, wiggling with the force of his undressing of you. The way he parts your thighs is almost thoughtful, peering down between them with only slightly more interest than before. The unreliability of his expression is daunting, not knowing what he’s thinking deep down underneath his limp hair and smooth brow, the hollows of his eyes in that handsomely gaunt face. It begs the question: what’s underneath? What kind of veins run just below that thin skin over his temples? What do the cuts of muscle look like, how red is his blood? Would it gush thick and purpled if you stab deep enough, hard enough, if you crack his skull like an egg and dig for the soft gray meat inside? Does he taste like a person? What _is_ he?   
  
“Are you going to be good?”  
  
His voice comes soft, whispering over your flesh like a silk ribbon. Pictures fade in and out of your mind’s focus as you clench your fingers and release, clench, release, like a pulse, the edges of your nails seeking solace in the fleshy pads of your palms. You could claw his eyes out. You could fit your fingers into the soft, parted lips, behind his teeth, and pull apart until something gives, until—  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It’s _not_ your word, but it _is_ your voice. It comes up through your throat all the same like bile.   
  
The first and second thrusts, aided as they are by the shameful slickness of your cunt, yields little in the way of progress. A third stroke tugs at your nerves like marionette strings, spine arching up as you rear back against the floor to escape the sharp punch of pain threatening to split you open. He fits your hips into his hands like they’ve always belonged there, yanking you down to meet him.   
  
“ _Don’t act like you don’t want it_ ,” he murmurs. The urge to answer is swallowed by pain, red as roses blooming in the muscles clenched around his cock. “Your need is ugly and loud, it’s desperate. It paints the air like the smell of your cunt. I could hear it from the streets. Could hear _you_ , soft thing. Breakable thing.”  
  
“What the fuck _are_ you?”   
  
Silence cloaks the two of you and yet the air is ripe with sounds – they’re like threads floating in the clouds, moans soft as gossamer drifting past the shell of your ear, the obscene slap your bodies make with each hard thrust. He moves like the tide. He takes his time to mold your pleasure while his fingertips press bruises into your flesh, eyes on you with an interest that grows with his patient pace. There’s the smell of something in the air that’s sweet and dry, and the image of crunched leaves and roiling, yellow-gray clouds light up in your mind’s eye. There’s that crisp ozone scent before a storm, heavy as the muffled kind of silence that happens only during snowfall at night. His pupils, wide as the starless sky, draw something up through you, up underneath your skin like brushfire, billowing clouds of toxic black smoke. Fury chokes you of your voice and blurs your vision, the man’s face doubling and tripling and smearing under the lens of your tears.  
  
Looking past him is like an illusion. It feels like a trick of the eye, seeing the mouth of the hallway where the most important people of your life sleep soundly without any awareness of the ugly thing happening in the living room. His breathing speeds into a series of soft pants and whines. It’s the only soft thing about this angular man, this… _abomination_ , almost too goddamn long to be a man at all. The world moves on without you. Everything beyond your living room is untouched by whatever he is, and the force of that touch puts tremors in your hands, fingers twitching reflexively into fists and then unfurling again, only to clench back to a defensive curl. His face looms pale and unmarked above yours.   
  
Your hand comes up before the impulse to slap him fades back into the fog. He startles a little, barely breaking his pace until you reach up and do it again. _Again_. Your open hand comes closed and pain shatters into your knuckles as they collide with the blade of his cheekbone – you’re not a fighter. You have no idea what you’re doing.   
  
The blow knocks him off-balance and knowledge stored in the slivers of your genetic code springs to life, whispering commands to your limbs and giving you the gift of rolling him to his back. _Escape. Escape, escape, escape._ He turns almost passively, lips parted wide as his fucking eyes. His hands are no longer on your hips, reaching up to touch the bruise blooming on the planes of his face. He doesn’t even try to defend himself when you land another, and another, all while his cock throbs inside of you.   
  
_And what of it?_ There’s a sound that leaves your lips, a sick, manic gasping that sounds suspiciously like pleasure. The roar of need settles over you like pinpricks after your legs go numb, white and shifty as static, blinding as the bright spots of blood in his eyes. His plush lips split and leak and swell, his cheek, his eye socket. A ring on your finger gouges his eyebrow. His hands flutter uselessly at the sides of his face like he’s afraid, like you're the monster. Maybe you are. Maybe there's something to the sight of his gorgeous face contorted in pain and surprise, painted in red. Blood smears over his chest where you rest your hands, panting, shaking with adrenaline like you might vibrate out of existence, zip right out of your flesh. But it’s not _you_ who sacrifices flesh tonight… _is it?_

He smiles, and then it’s gone. There’s only the broken expanse of skin pulled over that beautiful frame, the sheen of pink spit glossing his lips and teeth. His cock twitches even harder inside of you and the rise and fall of your hips comes naturally.   
  
“ _Brave little girl_ ,” he coughs. He fixes you with that horrible stare again, the one that makes you feel like a specimen in a dish, and the intoxicating wave of power filling your spine begins to ebb. It does nothing to slow the roll of your hips, undulating in circles and twists like you’re spelling an incantation to keep him as painfully wedged inside of you as possible. It aches. The sheer pain of being stretched and overfilled sings out in your nerves and the echo answers in the form of fevered pleasure. How can you focus on any one thing? _How did you forget about fear?_  Again, his mouth twitches into a soft, shy smile, one that makes him look a little closer to human. He looks harmless and even a little tender as he reaches up to dig his fingers between the slats of your ribs, grabbing handfuls of flesh like he’ll strip it clean off. “How long have you wanted to be the one who _reaps?_ ”  
  
He lifts you and drops you, lifts, _drops_ , rams his slim hips up and up and _up_ until you’re slapping a hand over your own mouth. Pleasure blooms out, recedes, and comes back tenfold, like the birth of an entirely new plane of reality. It sweeps over you and strings you along as everything turns white, as shame and horror melt off to make room for this, for pleasure so stark, so infernal that each spasm around the thick column of his cock is like a nail in your coffin. Hellfire roils in your belly and tears run down your face. The thing beneath you grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you lower, licking the salt from your skin. His blood tastes like copper and ashes. It smears against your face and fills your nose with its scent, and the image of his microscopic cells burrowing into the tissue of your lungs is somehow more disturbing than the violent way he fucks you apart, the hunger in his moan when he seals his lips over your cheekbone and _sucks_. There’s nothing beautiful about the wet pop when he pulls away to chase a tear from the bridge of your nose, or the way it makes you want to cum until you’re both wrung dry.   
  
“ _The earth I till, be still, be_ still—” He shudders, breath hot against your cheek, fingers tangled into your hair until it feels like it might rip from the roots. “Every creature of the night for miles can smell you. _Ripe fruit cannot hide long when the night comes, tiny Oriza._ ”  
  
That strange name leaves his lips and strikes a chord of familiarity, somewhere deep in your body where ancient knowledge lay undiscovered in your blood, whispers on the wind of something else. Something lost in the fickle shifting of time and reality.   
  
His eyes roll back in their deep sockets and his head lolls back on his throat. His pulse flickers there and it’s this that sets you off instead of the telling stiffness, the sudden throb and burst into your cunt like liquid heat. There’s a delicious little roll of the hips with each pound, deep enough to smash up against the tender bump of cervix and coat it with his seed, copious enough that it leaks out around him long before he’s finished. Time loses all meaning as he fills you thrust after thrust. It’s unending, a glittering sheen of sweat over his forehead as it continues on into the hopeless horizon. The hot clench-and-release around his cock is all that exists, the way he seems to expand inside of you as though he means to breed you with his unholy spawn. Just the thought has you swallowing back your moan, fighting the urge to roll your hips until you pull another climax into the strange pocket of reality on your living room floor. 

“You’re not a man,” you say, and your voice startles you. Why the fuck would you speak to him—to _it?_ To whatever the fuck is rutting into you against the carpet until your skin rubs raw, your knuckles aching with the aftermath of beating on his horrible face? “I don’t know what the fuck you _are_ , but you’re _not_ —not _real_.”  
  
“And yet, here… you… _are_. And here… _I_ am.” One big hand presses into your belly, low where it slopes down to that plush pillow of flesh, the mound of your cunt, just above where more of that slick, pink muscle squeezes around him. _There he is_. There you both are, spent to panting in each others’ faces. The world around you rushes back into focus. Reality pours in from around you through cracks in the dissipating fog of what’s just happened, your intruder shifting clumsily away from your body and rising to his feet. Pants slide up his slim hips and he nods at you with that blank gaze, empty once more but for the flecks of blood. Purpled flesh swells around one of those eyes, but it doesn't change a thing.  
  
His heavy footfalls cut through the roar of panicked blood in your ears and you follow them all the way down to the landing, where the door opens and shuts with a soft hush, with the click of a lock. Faint steps lead off the porch and disappear toward the street, a dog barking and then whimpering as he escapes the vicinity. It’s painful to be so frozen on the floor, bones locked and screaming with tension. _Get up. Get up and lock the door. Call the police._  
  
You do get up. The knob and deadbolt are fixed into place, and the urge to call the cops fades with the blind acceptance of what he is, and what he clearly _isn’t_. What could you possibly do to prevent his return should he decide to check up on you? How do you know he still can't see you, hear you....  _smell you?_

His seed rolls hot and sticky between your thighs and you shudder, ignoring the spark deep inside where he continues to warm you. 


End file.
